by Wyatt, Dani
“From this moment,” I said as I pounded her, “You’re mine. Is that understood?”
She moaned out an affirmative noise, but it wasn’t enough.
“Say it,” I roared, pummeling her with one hard drive after another, sure I would shoot her tiny body across the room with the force and pressure of the release building inside my balls.
“I understand!” she gasped into the pillow. “Please...”
She was young. She was going to require some teaching. “Say it,” I said again.
“I’m yours,” she snarled into the mattress.
“Fucking right, you are.”
I took her from every angle and in every direction. I fucked her on her knees, on her side, over the back of the chair. We knocked the tea kettle off the table. Herbs and whatever other drying plants Angelica had in bowls and jars covered the floor. I even lifted her off my cock, pressed her against the rough wall as I kicked a table onto its side and ate her sweet, flowing nectar until she begged me to stop.
I didn’t. I used her body like a tool for my pleasure. I lowered her from my face, slipping her spread folds down my chest until I impaled her on my cock, my fingers sinking into her lush ass, and lifted and lowered her body until I could bear no more.
My first orgasm was so intense that I nearly blacked out. All I could imagine was my baby in her womb, and me sucking milk from her full, dripping breasts.
Mine, fucking mine.
Over and over again I came into her, shooting so much seed into her pussy that my balls throbbed with each jerk and pulse. I paused, only for a moment, to check if she was still breathing, then I was releasing inside her again.
She went limp, but that didn’t stop me.
I fucked her to another orgasm, hers matching mine until she called me her king over and over and then I fucked her some more. I came so many times inside her that I lost count. The roughness and hardness of my life was no longer any barrier between us, because every battle had been fought in order to bring me to her, to bring us to this moment. I fucked away all her pain and all of mine.
And with each orgasm, I purified myself.
With each pulse of cum, I baptized her in my seed.
Sara
I came so many times that the only word I knew was his name. The only thing I felt was his thickness inside me. There was nothing else. No hurt from what had happened, no shame. Just him.
Just Bors.
His hardness was the balance to my softness, his years the wisdom my youth craved. His scars were the wounds I would heal.
His power and intensity took my breath away. The way he ravaged me was different from the way we’d made love before. Every action was wilder, as if my being in danger had unleashed his primal needs.
With each of the many new positions, he showed me new kinds of pleasure and new ways to tantalize my body and my mind. I absorbed his intensity, taking it deep within my physical being as well as my soul. He made me feel powerful and cherished, raw and uninhibited. With him, I made no apologies.
With expert hands, he manipulated my body as he needed it to be. I had always thought sex was a simple thing, a hurried act of mounting and rutting, but it was so very much more than that. It was musky sweat and semen, lips and muscles, sweet kisses and hungry licks.
It was slow, it was fast. It was hard and it was soft. It was yes to the very edge of no. It was everything I never knew I craved before.
Beyond my own pleasure I discovered new things about his needs as well. I discovered I had the power to take him to new heights—to make him shiver, beg, and groan. When Bors had me on my back, holding me close, I dragged my fingernails down his massive flesh, hard enough to make him hiss into my ear. And as I got to the dip where his solid and beautiful buttocks met his back, his rhythm changed, his thrusts slowed and deepened, and he came hard inside me once again.
Those deep and slow orgasms didn’t earn me the bobcat’s roar that his others did; these were softer, quieter, and more vulnerable. I adored every noise he made, every way he was.
“I love you,” he said, as he took me again, this time with me slightly on my side and one knee pressed towards my chest. “I was so worried when I couldn’t find you.”
Reaching up to his sun-beaten face, I ran my fingertips over his rough cheek. “I love you. I never meant to worry you.”
“If anything ever happens to you, Sara, I’ll lose my fucking mind. You have to believe that.”
In the flickering light of the oil lamp, I watched his expression change. His eyes closed and his jaw tightened. He wrapped one massive arm around my folded knee and plunged into me so deep my eyes rolled back in my head.
With two fingers, he made me come for him yet again, and this orgasm was even more powerful than all the rest—a universe-shaking tidal wave of pleasure that made me disappear into myself. Against the walls of my sex, his cock pulsed, and I felt him spill his cum into me one more time.
Once we were well and truly spent, both of us sweating with lusty exertion, he covered me with a blanket on the daybed and then prepared an area for us before the fire. His movements mesmerized me. Each gesture was so confident and powerful. So magnetic and sexy. He arranged a pile of cushions and blankets before the fire, which he fueled with one log after another.
“Angelica won’t like that we’ve used half her wood,” I said, admiring the way the firelight illuminated the valleys of his rock-hard abs.
He chuckled. “You think I give a shit about firewood right now? I’d burn down this whole goddamned village for you.” He twisted and added yet another log to the blazing fire, lighting up the dim room in dancing yellow-and-red bursts. “I’ll be sure her supply is overflowing by the time we’re wed.”
Another log, this time pine, and its pockets of resin made the flames sputter and spark.
A roaring fire was a little thing, but it felt enormous. To me, it represented so much. And in that instant, I had a real sense of what life would be like with him—I would be warm, safe, cared for.
It was more than I could ever have hoped until now.
He scooped me off the daybed, still wrapped in blankets, and laid me down before the fire where he joined me. The light from the blaze revealed the hard angles of his face. The depth of his scars and the devotion in his eyes.
I gazed up at him, dizzy with dreams and love. But I focused on the deep brown chasms of his eyes and found my center again. “I can’t believe we’re going to be married. How has my life changed so much in so little time?”
He twisted his big hand into mine, his huge fingers dwarfing mine.
“A few days, that’s all.” He raised his eyes to look at me, his look serious and intense. “There’s fuck all your father can do to stop us. You have my word. I’ll give you a good life, Sara. I’ve saved nearly every penny I’ve earned. We will have plenty. Together, we can build the livery and have something strong enough to support us as we grow old. We will not be royalty, but I will treat you like my queen.”
He brushed a lock of my hair aside and wound the end gently around his finger, once and then again. He pulled me to him and nestled his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply as he placed a protective kiss on my forehead.
“I wish we didn’t have to wait,” I said.
“Me too. But it’s the way it has to be. And when it’s done you’ll be mine in law, as you already are in my heart. I will provide for you, Sara. And,” he said, moving one hand down to my belly, “for our children.”
I felt so happy and so joyful that I didn’t even know what to say. As I nestled into his arms, I lost myself in his strength, the warmth of the fire, and my hopes and dreams of the future.
I envisioned our home, our garden, our animals and the joy and anticipation of carrying his children. That anticipation, I knew, might be far shorter than I’d expected. Though I may not have any experience with men, I knew well enough that I might already be with his child.
A boy, I was certain.
He’d have Bors’ s
mile, and my eyes. I could already imagine the pattern I would follow to embroider his swaddling clothes.
Bors shifted, rising up on his knees, and I saw the hunger on his face, knowing with a clutch in my belly that he meant to take me again. Though I was sore, and my sex still thrummed with the orgasms he had given me, I opened my legs willingly and without hesitation.
I was and would always be his, to do with as he pleased.
He ran his tongue over his lips as he looked down at me. He rolled my nipple between two of his fingers, biting his lip as if to share in the sting.
“Every time I’ve had you it’s been so dark,” he said. “Not this time, though.” He glanced at the roaring fire that illuminated the room. “This time, I won’t miss a fucking thing.”
He positioned me on my back, with a cushion beneath my hips so that my breasts spilled back, high onto my chest. For a long moment, his eyes stayed locked on mine. Our gaze unbroken and smoldering, his cock grew thick and hard against my thigh.
“Let me look at you,” he said, breaking away from my gaze. I watched him study my neck, my shoulders, my breasts. I lifted my legs playfully, grinning as I opened my knees, displaying myself for his approval. “I want to memorize every last…”
He stopped cold.
All at once, everything about his demeanor and behavior changed. He drew back and yanked his hands away from me, just as the Clan Johnston soldier had done when they’d exposed my ass.
My heart plummeted and an instantaneous, instinctive sob caught in my throat. He looked at me with the same shock and horror that the men who intended to rape me had. The true sight of me made men recoil. It was one thing when it happened with complete strangers, but now, in the arms of the man I had fallen for so deeply, I felt unspeakably horrified and ashamed of my body.
Of myself.
Embarrassed and ashamed, as well as confused, I closed my legs and hunched away from his gaze.
“Please don’t look at me that way. You said you loved me, but now, the way you look at me, I feel like a spectacle.” From the time I was young I knew my birthmarks were not normal. I had many. My body was dotted with them. But, I never believed them to be such a horror for men to look upon…that they were a sign of some disease that a man might catch just from touching me.
Before I could get away from him to be alone with my shame, he seized one of my ankles in a firm but painless grip, pulling my foot upward, looking along my thigh. “Sara, this mark…”
“What can be so awful about a birthmark?” I sobbed, trying desperately to cover myself with the blankets. “Please stop that, Bors. Please stop looking at me that way.”
Releasing his hold on my wrist, he searched my face—for what, I did not know. My cheeks burned, blood rushed in my ears and the faint memory of my mother and father’s hushed voices one summer evening just after I’d had my first womanly blood about how to rid me of one particular mark.
I remember my mother’s shrill whisper telling my father it wouldn’t be long until I let some boy from the village have his way with me. Sooner or later, someone would see…how they could brand over the mark…or slice it off… I shuddered, how had that memory eluded me until now?
Was I the witch after all?
They were always obsessed with no one ever seeing me unclothed. Not even my sisters. What mark did I have on me that caused such horror in anyone that saw it?
“You don’t know, do you?” Bors’ deep rumbling voice brought me back to the moment. “Of course you don’t. Out here in the highlands the business of the capital is a distant concern. You have no idea who you are. What you are.”
“A few minutes ago we were going to be married. Now you ask what I am, like I’m some sort of beast!”
He stared at me. “Were to be married? No, Sara, that hasn’t changed.”
“The way you’re looking at me now, I’m not so—”
Bors growled. “I said that hasn’t fucking changed. You’re mine, Sara. Don’t you dare ever doubt it. Your father will have to kill me to take you from me.”
“My father? I thought the marriage would put an end to his claim?”
He rose naked before me. He placed his hand to his jaw and dragged his fingers down his stubble with a sandpapery hiss as he turned on the spot, muttering to himself, and I knew in my heart something had changed the moment he saw that particular birthmark.
“Bors,” I insisted, “what does my father have to do with this?”
He met my eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek, then dropped his voice, falling back to his knees, his long arms pulling me into his hard chest where I heard the thumping of his heart as he rumbled into my ear.
“The man that raised you is not your father,” he said, and the warmth and love I’d felt moments earlier turned to ash in that moment.
Bors
In one second, she went from being my future wife to my future queen.
Beneath her left buttock, right where she would never see no matter how she twisted herself, she bore the unmistakable mark of the stolen royal—a crescent moon with a star in its hollow. I had seen the image many times over the past eighteen years, on banners that hung from the castle battlements a hundred miles to the east, on the royal guards’ ornamental shields, on parchment pinned to inn walls in every town close to the capital.
Once a year, the town crier in the capital shouted the same words, holding aloft the symbol for all to see:
Hear ye, hear ye, one and all. Should any subject of this kingdom see this mark upon the body of a young woman, present the woman before King Rowan, for she is the lost daughter of the realm and the heir to the throne. Hear ye, hear ye…
I was fucking stunned. Of course, the town crier had never mentioned where on the young woman’s body that mark would be found. It would be a shocking disrespect to the kingdom to mention such a place. I could hardly believe it myself, and yet it wasn’t hard to believe at all. She’d been my princess from the beginning. This was just confirmation of what I’d known in my gut all along.
“What do you mean, the man that raised me is not my father?” Sara asked, tears glazing her brilliant-green irises. “Bors, what’s going on, what do my birthmarks have to do with it?”
She was the missing royal. Chosen. Fucking blessed by God himself.
All the instincts that had told me I wasn’t good enough for her were true.
More true than I could have imagined, yet it didn’t make any difference. She was mine now, and the king and God and the entire fucking army would never take her from me.
Their authority would never take precedence over the authority of my heart.
I took her face in my hands, sweeping her tears aside. “Sara, you’re the lost princess. You’re the heir to the throne.”
Her smile broke through her confusion, then she laughed. “I’m no such thing.”
Now I made sure she could tell I was serious, deadly serious. “You are though, Sara. Your father…” I reached down to her ass, slipping my fingers under her lush flesh, revealing the mark, tracing it. “Your real father is the king.”
Her hand darted to mine as I splayed my fingers, letting hers feel the mark. “That’s crazy. Because of one birthmark? It’s just a birthmark, Bors, it’s not some divine symbol. I have dozens.”
“Not like this.”
She shook her head. “I’m just a girl from Weschail. You know that.”
She was anything but just a girl, princess or not. Still, I knew I was going to have to prove it to her. I grabbed my britches, searching through the pockets, but not finding what I was looking for.
“Wait here,” I said, and went to my bags, returning with the paper clutched between my fingers. It had the name of a contact written on the back, from the last mission I’d run for the clan when I had to grab the nearest thing that could be written on. I thrust it into her hand. “Read it.”
Her eyes widened as she read, her cheeks flaming. “No, it’s not. Bors, it can’t be. It’s just coincidence.”
“See for yourself,” I said, handing her the mirror.
“It’s impossible,” she said, her eyes watery with disbelief as she shifted and turned, trying to maneuver the glass so that she could see the mark that dipped into the crevice of her ass. “I can’t be who you think I am. It looks like a moon, perhaps, but there’s no star. You’re wrong.”
“Look,” I said, holding her quivering fingers and angling the looking glass for her. “There. You see?”
Her lips parted, and her eyes went wide as the reflection came to her eyes.
“No, it…it…” With her first finger, she delicately traced the moon, then the star, and then raised her eyes to mine. “This has to be some sort of mistake. Doesn’t it?”
The birthmark was enough to convince me, but looking at her now with fresh eyes I had zero doubt. She had the same black hair as King Rowan. And those crystal-clear green eyes were the same as the stories of the first queen, his first wife, the queen who had died in childbirth.
How many songs had been sung about Sara and her mother? And now here she was. A legend in the flesh.
“It’s no mistake. You’re the stolen child. Someone in your family must have known the truth, and they will pay for that, one way or another.”
She placed the mirror back on the mantel and reached out to me, trying to draw me to her again. “Even if it is true, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. All my life I have been dreaming of you, without even knowing such happiness could exist. And now I’ve found you, it makes no difference who I was once. No one needs to know. Nobody will see me like this, nobody but you.” She wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. “Hold me,” she said. “Forget the mark. I’m just me. Sara.”
Could we just keep this our secret, never tell a soul and live happily ever after? Why not? Someone in her family, perhaps all of her family, knew this truth, but I doubted they would say anything. Their own lives would be forfeit if they did. If anything, it gave me leverage over them all, it gave me a way to ensure our safety continued.
